


know what you need to get you high

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom Martin Blackwood, Gags, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Toys, Sub Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Teasing, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28638804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: “You’re just really cute. Got that little wrinkle in your brow that you get when you’re really focused on something.”“I wasn’t aware that was a thing I did,” Martin replies, bemused and fond.Tim nods his head once. “Yeah,” he says. “Mostly you do it when Jon asks you to do something. You get real determined.”His hand stilling suddenly, Martin pulls his head back. “I do not.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: you've been like a light [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 6
Kudos: 84





	know what you need to get you high

**Author's Note:**

> terms used for martin and tim's bodies in this fic: cock, dick, folds, entrance, hole, slit, chest  
> find me on twitter @lesbomartin !!

_you and me, we've been hanging around for the longest time_   
_i know when you're down, know what you need to get you high_   
_top down, like the wind through your hair on a summer's night_   
_outside, all of your fears, leave them behind_   
_baby, i'm speeding, and red lights i'll run_   
_what i got, you need it, and i'll run to your side_   
_when your heart is bleeding, i'm coming to get you_

// carly rae jepsen, 'making the most of the night'

* * *

Martin is really enjoying having his own place again, after the time he spent living in the archives. He can’t afford to move into a new place, so he ends up back in his flat, the stage where all the trouble was set to begin with. It’s less than ideal, but it’s better than being homeless, he tells himself. Still, the nightmares come, and the panic attacks, and the nagging feeling of not being alone, and he has to do something about it before long.

What he decides to do, after a few weeks of never feeling safe or comfortable in his own home, is to call Tim. He picks up after the first ring, despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight on a Wednesday, and listens while Martin stumbles through a rambling, twisting, roundabout way of asking him to come over. 

He agrees immediately, and Martin nearly melts with relief. Tim is there within the hour, and they have a few drinks before falling asleep together in Martin’s bed.

It becomes something of a routine after that: Tim sleeps at Martin’s flat two or three nights a week, Martin sleeps at Tim’s flat two or three nights a week, and he only rarely has to sleep alone. Sometimes they have sex and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they just talk, or have dinner, or watch a movie, or pass out as early as humanly possible after a long day at work.

Tonight could go either way, after the week they’ve had. It’s Friday, and they’ve been working hard, walking on eggshells around the archives because everybody’s on edge. They go back to Martin’s flat at the end of the day, almost without discussing it, both secure in the knowledge that they need each other, in whatever way they can get.

They fall boneless onto Martin’s sofa, hardly even taking the time to toe their shoes off. Tim settles with his arms wrapped around Martin’s middle and Martin pulls him easily into the circle of his arms. Tim tucks his feet under himself and turns to bury his face in the plush warmth of Martin’s chest, inhaling his earthy musk to ground himself.

“Alright?” Martin asks, simple and soft. Tim nods against him, hums an affirmative, and Martin presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “Good.”

They sit like that for a few minutes, just relishing the chance to hold each other and the heat of human contact, until Tim starts to get restless. He trails his fingers up and down the column of Martin’s spine, feather-light and playful, nuzzling his cheek heavily into Martin’s chest, but doesn’t say anything, waits for Martin to break the comfortable silence.

“Tim,” Martin says eventually, rubbing the other man’s shoulder with a firm hand, almost the pressure of a massage. “D’you want something?”

Tim hesitates, starts to shake his head, then changes his mind. “Mm,” he hums noncommittally. “Not unless you do.”

“Let’s say I do,” Martin throws back easily. “Anything in particular you have in mind?”

“Kiss me,” Tim answers without missing a beat. He pulls himself up into a better position for it, letting Martin see his pouting lips and his puppy dog eyes, and adds in a nearly inaudible voice, “Please.”

Martin smiles at that, all easy, simple contentment, and extricates his limbs to take Tim’s chin in his hand, tilting his face up. He swoops in to kiss Tim before he can quite catch his bearings, so that Tim ends up breathless and clutching onto Martin’s shirt for dear life, even though he asked for this. Martin knows it, too, and gets smug about it, his lips quirking up at the corners as he kisses Tim cleverly and thoroughly.

When Tim pulls away, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and spit-slick, it’s all he can do to stare up at Martin in awe. He knows – of  _ course  _ he knows how this goes, but he never ceases to be amazed at Martin’s unselfish confidence, and endlessly grateful that he gets to be on the receiving end of it. 

Almost without thinking, Tim pushes his body up against Martin’s, burrowing into him like a creature seeking warmth. Hands on Martin’s shoulders, he manages to sling one leg over Martin’s waist, settling comfortably in his lap and offering him a lazy grin.

Leaning back on the sofa, Martin lets Tim adjust his position before pulling him into another kiss. It’s easy and warm, languid and soft, Tim’s hands cradling Martin’s cheeks while Martin’s fingers roam over the curves and planes of Tim’s body. It’s not quite a sexual touch, just a familiar, comforting presence. Eventually, petting Tim’s hair, Martin sighs against his lips and pulls back just far enough to speak. 

“Let me take you to bed,” he murmurs simply, tender as anything.

“Yeah,” Tim breathes, more air than sound, and nods his head just to drive the point home.

Martin smiles, leans in to plant one more solid kiss on his lips, and slides his hands down to maneuver Tim out of his lap to allow them both to stand. Tim lets himself be manhandled – Martin does it so gently, he can hardly complain – and takes Martin’s hand, unwilling to stop touching him long enough to get to the bedroom.

Martin moves with ease and familiarity, his fingers traveling the expanses of Tim's skin, lighting his nerves on fire with every caress. He closes the bedroom door on instinct, though it's not necessary, only to push Tim up against it and kiss him again, hands slipping under his shirt. Tim opens up beautifully for him, wraps his arms around his middle and presses his palms into the small of Martin's back to pull their bodies flush.

"Let me," Martin mutters under his breath, squeezing the soft flesh of Tim's waist as he moves down to kiss his jaw. "Let me see you."

Tim nods, goes through the requisite wiggling to allow Martin to strip his shirt off. He looks at Martin expectantly, eyes roving up and down the length of his body, until Martin gets the hint and takes off his own shirt, as well. There's an audible breath of relief and wonder when Tim finally gets his hands on Martin's bare chest, his stomach, his hips, just soaking up the golden warmth of him.

Martin mouths along his neck, sucking gently at the delicate skin, not enough to mark, but enough for Tim to feel it and push into the sensation. He swipes his tongue over the spot a few times, feeling Tim’s pulse pounding, and lets his hand move lower to stroke over the trail of hair leading down from his navel. Popping the button on his trousers, Martin slips his fingers under the waistband of his pants, smiles against his throat when Tim whines and bucks against him.

“Come on,” Tim pants softly, mirroring Martin’s movements to slide his own hands under Martin’s pants and push them down over the swell of his ass, cupping and squeezing. “Can I, please,” he murmurs softly.

Martin gets the idea, takes a small step back and shucks his pants, giving Tim an opportunity to do the same before moving in close again. His hands travel up and down the curves of Tim’s waist and hips, feather-light touch making him shiver and gasp in spite of himself. It’s not long before he uses his hold on Tim to turn around, guiding him to the bed and laying him down with tender words and gentle hands.

Lying on his back with Martin hovering over him, Tim grins, drunk on the attention and the touch, and cranes his neck up to kiss Martin quickly. Martin smiles back at him, his brow furrowed, and bites his lip.

“What was that for?” he asks, his hand moving slowly between Tim’s legs.

“You’re just,” Tim pants, bucking his hips to grind up against Martin’s hand, “really cute. Got that little wrinkle in your brow that you get when you’re really focused on something.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a thing I did,” Martin replies, bemused and fond.

Tim nods his head once. “Yeah,” he says. “Mostly you do it when Jon asks you to do something. You get real determined.”

His hand stilling suddenly, Martin pulls his head back. “I do not.”

“Do too,” Tim retorts. “It’s adorable. He gives you work to do, and suddenly you’re Mr Employee of the Month.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Martin grinds out through his teeth. “That’s all.”

Tim shakes his head, pushing up on his elbow to give Martin a look, a furrowed brow and slight frown. “I know you are,” he soothes, “but – you know, I’m not insulting you. I think it’s cute.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Martin sighs, exasperated. “You don’t have to bring him into this, but you choose to do it anyway, why do you do that?”

“He’s hot,” Tim answers with a shrug, “and you like him, and I like him. Seems like a good combination for the bedroom.”

“We are  _ not,” _ Martin says sternly, “using him as a topic for  _ dirty talk.” _

Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Tim nods his head once. “That’s fair,” he concedes, “I just meant – you know me, I never shut the hell up, and I’m only saying that he’s a pretty central part of our lives, and it’s – he’s going to come up, is all.”

His hand squeezing Tim’s thigh, Martin closes his eyes tight for a long moment, takes a deep breath. “I would rather he didn’t,” he mutters simply. 

A slow smile spreads across Tim’s face, a sharp glimmer in his eye. Martin gives him a warning look, but Tim knows when he can get away with pushing his luck and when Martin sincerely wants him to stop. When it comes to sex, of course, they have a safeword if they ever need it, but even in their regular friendly interactions, Tim has learned the rhythm of the push and pull between them, the limits of Martin's patience, the extent to which he'll tolerate Tim's attitude. Tim has no desire whatsoever to genuinely upset Martin, but… it's fun to play with him, sometimes. And it's even more fun when he retaliates. 

So Tim takes a breath, cocks his head to the side, and decides that they could both use a bit of fun right now. "I think you like it," he says breezily, carefully noting the way Martin freezes in response. "I think talking about him gets you all hot and bothered, and you're just embarrassed to admit it."

Eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring subtly, Martin tightens his grip on Tim's thigh, another warning. "I'm not embarrassed," he says evenly, nothing like his usual high-pitched stammering defensiveness. "Personally, I prefer to think about  _ you _ when we're having sex."

"And I thank you for that," Tim replies with an air of over-the-top grace. "What about when you're alone?"

"When I'm alone," Martin echoes in a deadpan voice.

"Yeah, when you're alone," Tim repeats, emphasizing each syllable. "When you touch yourself, do you think about him?"

Martin starts to shake his head, but falters when he realizes it's a lie. "Maybe I do, sometimes," he admits, cursing himself for playing along with Tim's game. "Those are fantasies. It's not the same thing."

"Of course it's not," Tim assures him. "I'm just saying – that little look of concentration got me thinking about… how hot it would be if he was here, telling you how to touch me."

"Fuck," Martin breathes without really meaning to. "Tim, you can't say things like that."

Tim grins wide and bright. "Why not? Does it turn you on too much?"

Scowling unconvincingly, Martin shoots back, "No, it's weird."

"I don't think it's weird," says Tim. "If it's not weird for you and I to think about him when we're alone, then I don't think it's weird for us to do it when we're together. I think about both of you all the time when I'm jacking off, I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

Martin's voice is small and uncertain when he ventures, "...Both of us?"

"Mhm," Tim nods, unsubtly rubbing his thighs together as he speaks. "All my hottest fantasies involve the two of you together."

“Oh,” Martin squeaks, his voice cracking. He looks down for a long moment before quietly continuing, “Really? You’re not just trying to get me worked up?”

“I’m definitely trying to get you worked up,” Tim admits easily, a smile playing on his lips, “but it’s also the truth. I like to think about – you sitting on my face while he goes down on me. Or you fucking me while I go down on him. Stuff like that.”

Biting his lip, Martin swallows hard, his mouth running dry at the mental image. “Right,” he mutters, mostly to himself, “stuff like that.” He takes a moment to gather himself, giving Tim a halfhearted glare. “Do you want to come tonight?”

For a moment, Tim can only blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden bluntness of the question. “Yeah,” he says at length, “I think I’d like to.”

Martin leans in, smoothing his palms up and down Tim’s thighs, smiling a deceptively sweet smile. “Do you think I should let you?” he asks, all faux innocence and magnanimity. “Because I’m just not sure that you’ve been behaving yourself.”

“I – haven’t,” Tim chokes out, somewhat apologetic but far from ashamed. “I’m being a bastard.”

“You are,” Martin agrees. “Do you plan on shaping up anytime soon?”

“Probably not,” says Tim with a little shrug. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t anticipate that I’ll stop talking about it. Unless you make me.”

“Oh, is  _ that  _ what you want?” Martin arches an eyebrow at him, then slides off the bed to search through his drawers as he continues, “You know, there are easier ways to ask for this.  _ Hey, Martin, will you please gag me? _ You could try that next time.”

Tim grins as Martin turns around to face him, pointedly brandishing a ball gag at him. “I could, but where’s the fun in that?” He gives a sort of full-body wiggle of excitement when Martin climbs back on the bed, then quickly takes advantage of Martin’s softened expression to keep teasing him. “Half the appeal is in the game, babe, you know that. If I just  _ asked  _ you for it, then I wouldn’t get to see the look on your face when I talk about Jon’s cute little moans,” he pauses to give Martin another showstopping smile, “and how I think he’d look so  _ beautiful  _ falling apart on your tongue, and –”

Whatever might have come next is cut off with a muffled whine when Martin seizes him in a fierce kiss, twisting his fingers in Tim’s hair and pressing into his mouth insistently. Tim tilts his head back to let Martin get a better angle, sucks Martin’s lip into his mouth and wraps a hand around the back of his head to pull him in closer. When Martin pulls away panting, Tim looks up at him with stars in his eyes, doesn’t even take a second to recover before opening his mouth to speak again.

Pushing up on one hand, Martin catches Tim’s jaw in the other, squeezing just firmly enough to make Tim think twice about saying anything smart. “That’s enough out of you,” he murmurs, slipping the gag between Tim’s lips without another moment’s hesitation. Tim lifts his head to allow Martin to secure the strap at the back, his eyes fluttering shut as Martin coos at him, “There we are, love. That’s much better, isn’t it?”

Tim nods and hums in response, at the same time trying to shift his hips to thrust against Martin’s leg. It doesn’t work, the angle all wrong and Tim having no leverage to get any friction, but Martin notices the effort and chuckles fondly under his breath. “You’re very demanding for someone who can’t speak,” he chides, his hand finding its way between Tim’s legs at last. 

Tim bucks against his fingers immediately, unabashedly, and Martin grins, swipes up some of the slickness gathering between Tim’s folds and uses it to lubricate the friction of his fingers on Tim’s cock. The whine he gets at that spurs him on, which leads to him bracketing Tim's stiff cock with two fingers, sliding along the length of it slowly, pulling low sounds from deep in Tim's chest.

"You're so cute when you're needy," Martin remarks, if only to see the way Tim tenses up in response. He's always a bit thrown when Martin talks this way, even when Martin is in the process of taking him apart, and the fact that he can't respond with a flirtatious quip of his own makes it that much harder to process. Martin looks up at his face, then rakes his eyes slowly, obviously, deliberately down the length of his body to return his attention to between Tim's legs. 

"I could just keep still and make you do all the work, couldn't I?" he asks idly, running fingertips along Tim's slit. Tim makes a punched-out noise and squirms as Martin continues, "You'd look so pretty, grinding desperately against my hand."

The muffled groan that escapes Tim sounds almost pained, and Martin glances up at his face, almost positive that he’s fine, but just to make sure. Tim is just looking down at him, eyes wide and watery – and that’s an accomplishment, for Martin, Tim isn’t really one to cry, even when he’s begging. He’s not really crying now, just on the precipice of it, tears slipping down to wet his lashes but not enough to stream down his face. He’s alright for now, Martin decides, and keeps up his work, certain he’ll get Tim to cry for real before they’re done here.

“You want something inside, love?” Martin asks gently, after the third time that Tim shifts against him, frustrated by his teasing touches. “Want me to fuck you good and proper?”

To Martin’s slight surprise, Tim shakes his head, making a breathy sound and reaching out to grab Martin’s wrist, encouraging him to keep going. “You must know it won’t be that simple,” Martin tells him, his voice dripping with fondness and just a tinge of condescension. “If I wanted you to come like this, I’d have let you come by now.”

Tim’s eyebrows draw together in confusion and concern, and Martin smiles at him, leans over the length of his body to press a kiss to his forehead. “I think… me first, tonight.” Tim’s eyes brighten, his breath quickens, and Martin wastes no time in assuring him, “Nothing to get excited about. You don’t get to touch. You get to watch.”

Tim whines and pushes up on his elbows to watch Martin as he pulls away and steps over to his toy drawer, pulling out a nice purple dildo that Tim knows Martin loves. Martin settles himself near the foot of the bed, tapping Tim’s ankles to make him move to give him more room. The position gives Tim the perfect view of Martin as he moves his hand down between his own legs and spreads himself open.

His hole is wet and glistening, enough to make Tim’s mouth water, and a bubble of spit slips out of his mouth where the gag meets the corner of his lips. He whines and leans in the general direction of Martin, but he knows better than to actually move or try anything with his hands. Martin meets his eyes and holds his gaze as he slips one finger inside himself, rubbing his flushed and swollen dick with his thumb.

Martin doesn’t take long to work himself open – it’s not a very thick toy, and he’s already so turned on that it won’t be an issue at all to slide inside. In fact, he takes rather more time preparing than he actually needs, for the sole purpose of teasing Tim and watching his reactions. When Martin fucks himself on two of his fingers, scissoring them, he throws his head back and moans openly, and Tim groans, closes his eyes for half a second.

"You like that, hm?" Martin says, his voice high and breathless. "You're lucky I don't blindfold you, honestly."

Tim whines and shakes his head frantically, his brow furrowing with deep concern, bordering on fear. Martin licks his lips, relishing the way Tim's attention is trained entirely on him, as if he's the most important thing in the world.

"I won't do that," he assures Tim with a gracious air. "I like how you watch. I like how it makes you even more desperate, how you have to fight to stay still like I told you. I like looking at your face and seeing how badly you wish it was you working me open."

Breaths coming fast and ragged, Tim nods his head, unsure what he's agreeing with. He just knows that whatever Martin is willing to give him is what he'll take, and everything Martin says about him – how desperate he is, how much longing he's suppressing in order to do as he was told – is absolutely true. 

Apparently, that's good enough for Martin, because he offers up a little smile and spreads his legs wider. He positions the head of the toy at his entrance, locks his eyes on Tim's face as he sinks slowly down onto it. Tim's eyes go wide and awed, watching the length of it disappear inside Martin's slick hole. 

When he's pushed it in to the hilt, Martin presses just a little bit deeper to grind the head of it up against his inner wall. He brushes the tips of two fingers along his own swollen cock, letting out a breathy moan at the sensation. Tim whimpers, his limbs shaking with the effort of holding his position when all he wants to do is  _ touch _ – Martin, himself, anything at all.

Martin leans forward and reaches out, rubs Tim's calf reassuringly, then sits back again, moving on from putting on a show and instead just giving himself over to pleasure. He lets his eyes flutter shut, his lips parted and glistening as his breaths start coming faster and shallower. 

Before long, he's properly fucking himself on the dildo, raising and lowering himself on the length of it in long, easy movements. His thighs are well muscled under all that softness, allowing him to lift his weight almost effortlessly to ride the toy with abandon. It works better when he doesn't have to hold the cock in place, when it's suctioned to the floor or attached to a person, but Martin is more than capable of working with what he has.

"Fuck, that's good," Martin breathes as he brings his free hand to stroke his cock. He hears Tim's answering groan and he smiles, his high moans nearly constant, underscored by the filthy wet sounds of the toy inside him. He works his hand faster between his legs, grinding down against the base to hit the most sensitive spots deep inside himself.

With one last glance at Tim to make sure he's watching – which, of course, he is – Martin leans into the pleasure that's been building inside him and tumbles over the edge. He maybe cries out a bit more theatrically than he would otherwise, but Tim certainly isn't about to complain. Martin comes apart so beautifully, every time, his thighs clamping together around his hand, his head thrown back and baring the expanse of his neck, his back going taut as a bowstring. He finally heaves a sigh and lets his posture go slack, regaining his breath for a moment before reaching down and pulling the toy out of himself, setting it aside.

When Martin turns back to face Tim, he's still staring, as if he fears Martin will disappear if he blinks. "Why do I get the feeling that was better for you than it was for me?" Martin asks, and Tim huffs out a little laugh through his nose, but it's not like it isn't true. Tim thinks, fleetingly, that he might be able to come untouched just from watching Martin get himself off. Not right now, though.

Right now, Martin is hovering over him, one hand planted firmly on the bed beside Tim’s chest, the other loosely gripping his jaw and tilting it up to give him better access as he leans down to mouth at Tim’s neck. Tim preens under the attention, his breath catching when Martin bites down gently, relishing the hot, wet press of Martin’s tongue on his sensitive skin.

As he moves lower, Martin begins murmuring soft praises between sucking and licking and nipping at Tim’s throat and chest. “Such a sweet thing,” he says, his breath ghosting over the wet trail left in his wake, and Tim shivers from head to toe, from the words or the feeling, he can’t be sure. It doesn’t much matter. 

“So good for me, sweetheart,” Martin continues, his lips now grazing the spot just above Tim’s navel, “and I’m going to make you feel so good, because you deserve it, don’t you?”

Tim whines, his hips twitching uselessly, and nods his head slowly, trying not to let the hope in his eyes show too strongly. Martin smiles at him, presses a gentle kiss to Tim’s soft stomach, and dips lower still. 

When Martin’s tongue first brushes Tim’s cock, it’s all Tim can do to keep his hands where they are – really, all he can do, so he is altogether incapable of holding back the sound that claws its way out of his throat or restraining the involuntary jerk of his hips up against Martin’s mouth. Martin pulls back, just enough to be out of Tim’s reach, and gives him a warning look. Tim closes his eyes for a second, hardly longer than a blink, but the apology comes across clearly enough that Martin deems it acceptable.

He plants his hands firmly on Tim’s hips as he moves closer again, an unmistakable statement:  _ Stay put, _ it says, and Tim hears it loud and clear. Martin dives in with abandon, licks between his folds hungrily. His tongue traces a line from Tim’s slick hole up to his cock, swirling around the tip before taking it between his full lips and sucking it. 

Tim lets out a punched-out groan and fists his hands in the sheets, focusing on breathing through his nose, because his breaths are coming fast and heavy with the way Martin’s got him worked up, and the gag doesn’t make it any easier. He keeps his eyes on Martin’s head between his legs, the curls sticking to his forehead and the dark flush in his cheeks and the earnest bliss in his expression whenever he lifts his head and shows enough of his face.

He dips the tip of his tongue lower, circling Tim’s entrance before slipping the tip of it inside him. Even as shallow as it is, Martin feels Tim’s hole clench around his tongue, and he squeezes Tim’s hips in response. Tim whines and lets his head drop down onto the pillow as Martin drags the flat of his tongue up along hot, slick skin, sucks a lobe of flesh into his mouth and bites down gently.

When Tim feels his pleasure cresting, he almost considers trying to suppress his tells, to reach his orgasm before Martin becomes any the wiser, but he decides against it before long. Another time, he might seriously consider it, but neither of them has the energy for a proper punishment tonight, and Martin deserves Tim’s obedience. So Tim does his best, but it’s not easy. 

Martin lets up on the workings of his tongue when he senses Tim is close to coming, and Tim whimpers and bucks his hips involuntarily, and Martin rubs his thumbs along Tim’s hips in a soothing gesture as he looks up at him with his lips and chin shining. He watches the quick, frantic rise and fall of Tim’s chest until it’s slow and steady again, and then he leans in again to lick and suck him, repeating the process over again. 

After the fourth or fifth time, Martin pulls back a little further, looks up at Tim’s face, taking in the sight with pride. There are tears on Tim’s cheeks now, and every exhale is a moan, and Martin watches his expression as he drags a finger up the length of Tim’s slit and presses down on his cock. Tim squirms against the sheets, his sob muffled by the gag but beautiful nonetheless.

Slowly, Martin moves to straddle Tim’s thighs, leans over his body and whispers hotly in his ear. “No talking,” he says, his hand moving around to the clasp at the back of Tim’s skull, “but I want to properly hear you fall apart for me. Don’t make me regret it, alright?”

Tim’s eyes go wide and he lifts his head to let Martin unfasten the gag easier. He nods minutely, hoping his gratitude comes through in his expression. When Martin removes the gag from his mouth and tosses it aside, Tim works his jaw open and shut a few times, slightly sore from being held open for so long.

The first thing Martin does then is kiss Tim positively breathless, all teeth and spit, filthy moans directly in his open mouth, the taste of himself on Martin’s tongue. Tim leans up into the kiss, sweeps his tongue across the roof of Martin’s mouth and along the line of his teeth, tasting every crevice of him and whining wantonly. Martin takes his time, sucking Tim’s tongue and biting his lip, bringing a hand to Tim’s hair and tugging sharply to pull a delicious moan from him, which Martin swallows greedily.

When he finally pulls away, Martin looks wrecked, his lips red and swollen and shining, his eyes wide, pupils huge. Tim looks up at him, his own lips tingling, and waits for his next move. He has a feeling that Martin gave him time on purpose to cool down after being on the edge for so long, and an equally strong hunch that he’s going to put him through the wringer again before letting him come. He’s alright with that.

Sure enough, Martin sits back again with a wicked gleam in his eyes. He lets his hands ghost up Tim’s sides, feather-light fingertips dragging over his skin and making him shudder, before bringing them to rest on Tim’s chest. There’s not much there, but Martin massages the flesh for a minute, the warmth of his hands comfortable and pleasant but not necessarily arousing. Making Tim wait for it.

When he brushes the pad of his thumb over Tim’s nipple, Tim gasps sharply, then snaps his jaw shut, slightly embarrassed about the dramatic reaction. Martin repeats the motion, adds a bit more pressure, and begins doing the same with his other hand. He works slowly, deliberately, and it feels like a century has passed by the time he’s properly pinching and tugging Tim’s nipples, the way Tim likes it. 

He writhes and squirms beneath Martin’s hands, every exhale a high, whining moan, shifting his hips fruitlessly in search of some kind of friction on his cock. The sound that escapes him when Martin dips low and takes his nipple into his mouth is nearly inhuman, a breathless squeal that cuts off with a broken moan as Martin sucks hard. 

Every time Martin does something new, Tim thinks he can’t possibly last any longer, that he might combust if Martin doesn’t let him come, but he keeps going anyway. Tim notes distantly that he really is being very good right now, keeping his words and his hands to himself just as he was told. Martin bites his nipple gently before pulling off with a wet pop and surveying Tim’s face with a shrewd, analytical eye, incongruous with the flush on his face and his tousled curls.

“Gorgeous,” Martin whispers, his voice cracking, rubbing a thumb over Tim’s cheek. “I could play with you for hours,” he remarks casually, pausing rather longer than necessary before continuing, “but you’ve been such a good boy for me, I think you deserve a reward.”

Tim’s breath and heartbeat speed up at that, and Martin leans in to press a lingering kiss to his lips. He insinuates a hand down between Tim’s legs and dips two fingers between his folds to swipe through the mess around his hole, using Tim’s own slick to lubricate the slide of his fingers on his cock. Tim whines, bucks his hips to grind against Martin’s hand, desperate beyond reason.

Martin still makes him wait for it, makes him work for it. Tim chases his pleasure, encouraged by Martin’s mouth latched onto his neck, and he feels himself approaching the edge before long, but he can’t come yet, not without permission. He slows the movement of his hips, but Martin just picks up without missing a beat, rubbing him so perfectly that Tim can do nothing but try his damnedest to hold back.

He doesn’t even notice when the tears start flowing in earnest, can’t even hear the half-sob, half-moan noises leaving his own mouth, he’s so far gone. Martin trails messy kisses along his jaw and throat, playing him like an instrument, his fingers working deftly to make Tim see stars, letting up at just the right time to keep him on the edge. 

Just when Tim begins to think he really might not have it in him to keep going, Martin presses a kiss to the shell of his ear and finally, finally, finally tells him, “Go on, love. Come for me.”

It is, to put it bluntly, the best orgasm of Tim’s life. It takes him over in waves, wringing several broken moans from him, and Martin strokes him through it, murmuring praises that Tim can’t fully process. It seems to go on longer than Tim would have thought possible, aftershocks taking him by surprise, making him arch his back and let out a truly obscene moan before slumping back on the bed.

Tim’s not sure how much time passes before he regains his right mind. His limbs are jelly, his breaths coming in the short, aborted hiccups that happen after a really good cry, and he opens his eyes, uncertain when he closed them. Martin is wiping the tears from his cheeks, kissing his face, and Tim feels warmth blooming in his chest as he tunes in to what Martin is saying. 

“So perfect, sweetheart,” Martin murmurs against his lips, “I’m so proud of you, you did so well.” Tim just puckers his lips to catch Martin’s in a short kiss, then gives him a blissful smile when he pulls back. “You can talk now,” Martin adds, all gentle and warm, “if you want. Whenever you’re ready.”

Tim gives him a little nod, takes a minute to gather himself. He wraps his arms around Martin as soon as he finds the physical strength to do so, and the words follow only a moment later. “Thank you,” Tim says, his voice strained, little more than a whimper.

“Of course,” Martin tells him, and leans in to kiss him again.

The next ten minutes are a blur of kissing and warm hands and soft endearments, but Martin manages to drag Tim into the shower, bribing him with promises – “I’ll do all the work for you,” he says, “you only have to come with me and let me take care of you,” and Tim certainly can’t say no to that.

Martin’s down on his knees in the shower, making thorough work of Tim’s legs from the floor up, taking particular care when he reaches Tim’s inner thighs. “You know,” he says idly, as he’s using a cloth to tenderly clean his folds, “I went easy on you tonight.”

Tim snorts out a little laugh. “You what?”

“You heard me,” Martin says, looking up to catch Tim’s gaze. “Don’t expect me to be so kind the next time you try to pull any shit like that, is all I’m saying.”

“Oh,” Tim squeaks, an echo of heat thrumming between his legs.  _ “Oh.” _


End file.
